


Alternate Cargo

by Spatchcock



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Everyone calls her Fishstick anyway, F/M, I can never remember the character's name, Swamp ass (technically), Terrible actress, Trip being charming, it doesn't matter, swamp sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatchcock/pseuds/Spatchcock
Summary: What really happened over the commercial break in “Precious Cargo”?





	

            Her mouth was hot, and tasted sharp like scallions. He didn’t care. So much the better, in fact. Her fingers scraped across his scalp, leaving burning trails.

            He laved his tongue down the impossibly long column of her throat. She growled. He groaned in response, unthinking. This was primal, primitive, barbaric. Uncivilized. Common. _Hot._ So very hot, here in the swamp. Birds called to each other, or things that sounded like birds. Animals rustled through the foliage. The pond water splashed softly at the bank they were sitting on. Warm water, plastering her thin dress to each curve and jut of bone.

            A firm nip on each tiny mark crawling along her hairline. She shuddered in his arms, clutching at him. _Not so loathe now,_ he noted in some distant corner of his brain. He pulled her tight against him and she let him. If she had resisted he would have stopped, of course, but he was mightily glad she wasn’t resisting. He was so hot.

            Too hot for this stupid uniform. He managed to let go of her long enough to unzip the front. She clawed at it, yanking the sleeves off his shoulders, biting his collarbone and then his nipples through the undershirt as he bared his chest. He flung his head back and cried out. Sharp little teeth on each pebbling nub, sending fire directly to his aching groin. Her hair was wet and tangled from the swamp water. He got the second sleeve off and bent down to bury his face and hands in that hair, dark and wild.

            She struggled with the uniform at his waist. He shooed her hands away and pushed her back gently, onto the damp earth. She was panting, exotic eyes wide with want. He thought he might look the same. His hands slid up her sides to pull off the dripping gown. He followed the dress with kisses and nibbles, sucking lightly at her skin through the gossamer slip, trailing up her belly, between the soft breasts, up her throat again as she pulled it off over her head and tugged him down. Another sizzling kiss. Her tongue scalded his mouth. He welcomed it. He settled onto her, carefully —

            She gasped loudly and pulled away. He stared at her in absolute shock.

            “What is THAT?”

            “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, a little hoarsely.

            “I thought you were male!” That horrendous shrillness had returned to her voice. He winced a little.

            “I am a male! I thought you were a _female_ _!”_

            “The First Monarch can ONLY be female!” she shot back. “Is your entire _species_ built wrong?” She shoved at him, pushing him off her. He fell to the side, willingly enough. About the last thing he’d expected was to find a raging hardon between _her_ legs, pressed against his own.

            “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

            “Don’t tell me your _females_ carry the children!” She looked revolted.

            “Our species, and just about every other one we’ve ever known!” The exception flashed across Trip’s mind in a brilliant burst, paired as always with the pang of regret he felt over the daughter he would never know.

            “Well, then, obviously you’re _all_ built wrong,” she pronounced, crossing her arms over her breasts. Those pert breasts which still looked edible through the pale undergarment, even above her fading erection.

            Which hadn’t felt so bad, come to think of it — it had just startled him. Hell, he’d only stopped because she had. Trip considered himself to be pretty flexible. He was an explorer. A handjob would be easy enough. And if she was willing to use her mouth, he was too much the gentleman not to reciprocate. Well, in for a penny —

            He gathered his courage. “Look, your Highness, I realize I don’t, uh, live up to your expectations, exactly — “

            “You can say that again,” she muttered.

            “ — but you know, maybe we could, uh, y’know, overlook this little, uh, surprise, and, uh...” He gestured between their cooling bodies, and raised his eyebrows hopefully.

            “yyyyyyUCK!” Her face twisted in disgust. “I’m sorry, Mister Tucker, but that is absoLUTEly out of the question!” Trip sagged, his hand falling, and hung his head in defeat. Doomed. He was doomed. He was going to rot to death on this wretched soggy planet with Princess Codpiece. Probably molder into a festering mess right out in the open, too, because the First Monarch sure wasn’t going to break a nail digging a grave for him. Deadgobah. And to add insult to injury, he wasn’t even going to get any before he died.

            She chuckled. It wasn’t a mean sound

            He looked up, a little hurt. “What’re you laughin’ at?”

            “You really are desperate, aren’t you?” She seemed amused, which was an improvement over grossed-out. He took it.

            “Princess, you got no idea.”

            “Don’t they let you — ”

            “Fraternizin’ is against regulations. Not allowed.”

            Her eyes widened. “So you can’t — at all? Or you have to find some willing alien?”

            “Stupid, ain’t it? Encourages us to be irresponsible.” The captain had sent any number of messages to ’Fleet objecting to the no-fraternization policy, complaining that they couldn’t expect land-based rules to apply to people living on a starship, but Trip didn’t think now was the time to get into that discussion.

            “How short-sighted.” She mused for a moment. “Well, Mister Tucker, I certainly can’t help you, but when we get back to my planet, there _are_ the dancing boys — ”

            “Dancin’ boys?” His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair.

            “Oh, yes. The First Monarch’s Troupe. They’re very skilled. Highly trained. The Troupe is only permitted to perform for the First Monarch and her guests. Carefully selected when very young, and then thoroughly schooled.” She looked at him meaningfully. “And they’re _all_ empathic metamorphs.”

            “Empathic what?”

            She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t your species know anything?”

            “We gotta talk about our feelings, Princess. No psychic powers.” He waggled his fingers by his forehead in demonstration.

            She sighed. “You’re completely backwards, all of you. I’m amazed you’ve survived this long.” Trip bit his tongue. “Empathic metamorphs can sense what a woman wants in her ultimate mate, and then change themselves into it.”

            “Change themselves?” He had a vision of a group of shirtless young men growing variously taller, shorter, darker, paler, stockier, thinner, blond, redheaded, bearded —

            “Be aggressive, be passive, flirt, tease, give in, fight back, flatter, fawn — whatever the woman wants. The First Monarch usually lends them to a guest for an evening as a gift, after a dance performance. It’s a great honor.”

            “Is it, now.”

            “It is,” she said firmly. “And they have the right...” She glanced down at the diminishing bulge in his uniform. “Equipment. For you, I mean.” She frowned, thinking. “Of course, I’m not the First Monarch yet, so you wouldn’t be able to...”

            “Be irresponsible?” He started to smile.

            She smiled back. She looked much nicer when she smiled. She had pretty teeth. “Or even see them. At least, not until I ascend to the throne.”

            He nodded, slowly. “Dancin’ boys,” Trip repeated, deadpan.

            She nodded also, enthusiastic. They stared at each other for a long moment.

            She burst into giggles. He joined her, falling onto his back and laughing until tears came to his eyes. Some explorer he was. Getting himself knocked up. A cloaked arm. Nearly freezing _and_ nearly baking to death. A princess with a penis. Helluva ride, this Starfleet thing.

            When he could breathe again, he stood up and gallantly offered her a hand. “C’mon, your Highness. Let’s get out of these wet things.”

            “Build me a fire?” she asked winsomely as he pulled her to her feet. He didn’t have the heart to yell at her. They were going to need to dry out their clothing anyway.

            “Sure, why not.” She scooped up her dress and they walked back up the slope, hand in hand. “And maybe you can tell me more about these sensitive dancin’ boys of yours.” She started giggling again.

            He stripped the rest of the way out of his uniform, only slightly surprised that he felt no self-consciousness. Well, he’d certainly done enough running around in his underwear since they’d left Earth. It was practically his Away Mission gear. He spread out the jumpsuit and her dress on a nearby rock and crouched next to the small pile of kindling, using every trick he knew to coax a fire out of it. She huddled on the other side, rubbing her arms.

            “Chilly?” he asked solicitously.

            “Now that the sun’s gone down.”

            “I should have this goin’ in a minute.”

            “Thank you.” Funny how most of the attitude had come off with her dress. Trip supposed there was something to that, but decided he didn’t care enough to pursue the thought at the moment. Later, some night over drinks with Malcolm, they’d have a good laugh at Trip’s expense and then discuss the parallel symbols and signifiers behind the royal behaviors and the royal outfit. Mal went a lot deeper than most people thought. But then, so did Trip.

            The twigs eventually caught, and the sticks obediently followed. A decent blaze sprung up. She held out bony hands to warm them; he hoped her species wasn’t overly affected by the cold. He found the large nut shell he’d been trimming earlier. “Ah’m goin’ to get some water,” he told her, gesturing back towards the pond.

            “We’re going to drink the water? Is it safe?”

            “We were just rollin’ in it. I don’t see you sickin’ up your guts yet.” She considered this. “We’ll boil it, just to be on the safe side.”

            “Over this fire? It’s not very hot,” she sniffed. He shrugged apologetically.

            “Told ya there wasn’t enough dry wood for a good fire.” He grinned at her, and she smiled back at him, getting the joke. “Give it a little while. It’ll get hotter.” He walked carefully down to the bank, trying not to slip in the mud, and skimmed water off the surface. A few strands of ropy vegetation clung to the sides of the shell. He plucked them out, wiping his hand on his leg. He tilted the shell this way and that to catch the last of the light, hoping to spot any insects so he could remove them. Bug soup would make _him_ sick up his guts, whether the water was safe or not. Bugs. Brrrrr.

            To his surprise, when he returned to the fire, she had managed to rig some kind of contraption to hold the shell above the flames. The green wood which abounded in the swamp worked quite well for a sketchy sling, cradling the shell and bending without snapping.

            “Nice job,” he said.

            “Thank you.”

            “I didn’t think the First Monarch knew how to — make a kettle holder.” He had been about to say _boil water_ , but she was still being civil. Best not to provoke her.

            “You don’t know everything there is to know about me, Mister Tucker,” she said with a Mona Lisa smile.

            He snorted. “Yeah, I figured that out about ten minutes ago.” They both laughed again. He settled the shell into the bough of branches and waved his hands above the fire. “See? It’s gettin’ hotter, just like I told ya.”

            “It’s getting smellier too,” she remarked, wrinkling her nose.

            “Maybe we landed in the Bog of Eternal Stench,” he quipped. She rolled her eyes, not getting it. Of course she wouldn’t. He’d seen that movie with Mal, who had been fascinated with the Goblin King’s odd-colored eyes.

            She shivered and tried to stretch closer to the fire without actually moving. Trip took pity on her. “Maybe I can help, Princess.” He got up, joints creaking a little — _you’re not 25 any more, Tuck ole boy_ , he reminded himself — and came to her side of the fire. “Lie down and get comfortable.”

            “Why?” she asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing. He was really too weary to fight, so he tried to be patient. He thought of a few ways to word what he wanted to say before finding an inoffensive one.

            “Shared body heat. To keep you warm. That’s _all_.”

            She studied him as he sat down beside her, gauging whether he was being honest. After a long moment she relented. “I’d prefer not to be too close to the fire. It really does smell bad.”

            “All right,” he agreed. The smell was reminiscent of gingko blossoms, which wasn’t as bad as burning tires but wasn’t preferable to, say, night-blooming jasmine. Or the ocean off the Keys.

            She found a flat, mostly dry spot a few feet away and arranged herself. He checked the fire and the water and then settled behind her, one arm chastely placed around her waist. “Sweet dreams, Princess.”

            “What?”

            He smiled. “Never mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Paramount owns Trek; I don’t. Not making any money off this.


End file.
